


Feathers for the Dying

by Timid_Timbuktu



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: Bass has a cousin, Crack, M/M, Misha Collins guest stars on Revo, did I mention this is total crack?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-24
Updated: 2013-03-24
Packaged: 2017-12-06 08:34:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/733653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Timid_Timbuktu/pseuds/Timid_Timbuktu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Misha Collins guest stars on Revolution and manages to destroy two fandoms and thousands of fangirls in one fell swoop.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Feathers for the Dying

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ElDiablito_SF](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElDiablito_SF/gifts), [3988Akasha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/3988Akasha/gifts).



> This is complete crack written entirely for ElDiablito_SF and 3988Akasha. This probably won’t make sense to anyone, including myself, but it was born out of a tumblr conversation with El about Misha Collins guest starring on Revo and what his role on the show might be. I don’t even know what this is. I’m sorry, El and Akasha, but this is for you. I don't even watch SPN, so sorry.

Misha Monroe sauntered lazily into the Bass’ office, a light chuckle on his lips. He couldn’t wait to tell Bass about what Jeremy had done on their recent patrol. It would have the president in stitches. He was so preoccupied with his thoughts that it took a few seconds for him to realize that Bass was tied to a chair, bloody and beaten.

“Misha, no, run,” the president’s voice was hollow and broken. He paused, unsure what to do. Run? Help Bass? His right hand snaked across his body, reaching for the handle of his sword.

“Don’t move,” the low voice murmured from across the darkened room. He knew that voice, hadn’t heard it in years, but he knew that voice well.

Miles.

Misha’s hand froze as he turned his gaze to Miles, older but still commanding in his presence. A natural-born leader. A natural-born killer, too, which didn’t put Misha’s mind at ease when he spotted the glock pointed directly at him.

“Miles, don’t, please,” Bass muttered between racking coughs. He was weak from a brutal beating.

Miles ignored him, “Misha, I’m surprised to find you still alive. Bass and I thought you dead years ago.”

Misha glanced quickly at Bass, looking for guidance through this conversation. Bass had always known that Misha was alive. He had been the one to make Misha live in the shadows. He had forced him to change his last name to something common and innocuous: Collins. Bass had wanted to protect him from harm because Bass simply had too many enemies. If anyone had known who Misha was, that he was Bass’ cousin, his only living relative, it would have made him a wanted man. He was Bass’ one weakness…other than Miles.

But why had Bass kept Misha’s continued existence a secret from Miles? Misha couldn’t fathom it.

“I rather enjoyed the quiet life,” Misha replied, turning his eyes back to Miles, “I was never interested in playing war or government, so I changed my name and ran an orchard in New Hampshire.”

“Then why did you come back?” Miles asked.

“Same reason I suspect you came back, Miles. Same reason you always come back, for Bass. So, is the third time a charm? Are you going to actually kill him this time?”

“I’ll never actually kill him,” Miles answered, gazing at Bass with such longing that it made Misha feel dirty to look upon it. They still gazed at each other like lovers, even when Bass was beaten and tied to a chair. They would always come back to each other.

“I’ll just kill him the way he kills me: figuratively,” Miles said, “I’ll kill him by taking away his family the way he takes away mine.”

“No, Miles,” Bass whimpered, as the meaning behind the words sank into Misha’s brain. He began to shake his head, backing up and panicking.

“Wait, Mi—“

The shot rang out, loud and vibrating in the wooden room. His ears were ringing so loudly that he didn’t even notice Bass’ screams, but he could see that Bass’ mouth was open and he was crying and thrashing in his bindings. He wondered briefly why Bass was upset, and then the pain crashed into his stomach.

He fell onto his back without meaning to, pressing his fingers to his belly and finding it wet and sticky with blood.

“Fuck,” he whispered, gazing up at the ceiling as Bass’ sobs filled the room.

Misha furrowed his brow. When had the ceiling become covered with feathers, bright, vivid feathers, all of the colors of the rainbow? They were beautiful. They started to flutter down from the ceiling and he reached out, trying to capture one in his hand. They dissolved in his touch.

 _I’m going into shock,_ he realized, but it didn’t prevent his joyous wonderment at the beauty of those feathers as they rained down upon him.

Miles slowly slid into his view, standing over him, gun held limply in his hand. Still the feathers cascaded downward.

Somewhere in the distance a voice filtered into his brain. It wasn’t Miles. It wasn’t Bass. It wasn’t a voice he had ever heard before, and yet it was familiar, as familiar as home. The voice was deep and racked with pain.

 _Cas,_ it said. A foreign word, and yet not foreign at all.

_Cas. We need you…I need you._

And Misha knew that he would follow that voice anywhere, that he would do whatever that voice asked of him.

“I’m coming,” he muttered, barely able to form words as his vision began to darken.

“No,” it was Bass, “Misha, no. You are my only family now. I need you. You can’t die. I need you.”

Misha opened his mouth to explain, to tell Bass that this other man needed him more, this man with the deep voice, but he was so tired and speaking took so much effort.

“Miles, why do you hate me so much? Why do you want to take everything from me? Why do you want to destroy me again and again?” Bass whispered. He sounded so broken. Misha wished that he could rise and go to his cousin, hold him and comfort him. But his limbs wouldn’t move.

Miles’ voice filtered through Misha’s fading thoughts as the world turned black.

“I don’t hate you, Bass. I love you. I’m sorry, I love you so much, but I have to do these things.”

“Why?” Bass’ voice was pure despair.

“Because it is written. Because it is on the page, and I must follow the words on the page. I must follow the script.”

“Miles, what the hell are you talking about? I love you, just stop.”

“I can’t. I have to follow the script, Bass.”

 _Cas,_ the voice called to Misha again and he welcomed it, _Come back. I need you._

Misha felt the world fade away into nothing, but right as he fell over the precipice and into the abyss, Miles' words floated through the air toward him.

“I’m sorry, Bass. Kripke made me do it.”


End file.
